


only twenty minutes to sleep (but you dream of some epiphany)

by butmomilovemyboys



Series: sam & dean & demon powers [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 Pilot (Supernatural), F/M, Gen, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butmomilovemyboys/pseuds/butmomilovemyboys
Summary: “Alright,” his brother says softly, his eyes watering just a bit. It’s not until later that Sam realizes Dean was crying for him and not for Jessica.Sam doesn’t bother to get under the stained comforter. His body is running too hot. Instead, he curls up in the corner and puts his chin to his chest. His head swims with exhaustion, adrenaline, and grief, and before he knows it he drifts off into dreams and nightmares.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: sam & dean & demon powers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822591
Comments: 3
Kudos: 73





	only twenty minutes to sleep (but you dream of some epiphany)

**Author's Note:**

> ive listened to a lot of taylor swift this month and then i wrote this. i miss jessica. im a samjess stan. it happens

It’s been 8 hours and 48 minutes since Jessica Moore died. Dean knows because he’s been counting. Sam knows because he just does. 

The police think Sam did it, he guesses. Honestly, they’re right. Kinda. They’re at least right to give him skeptical looks when they ask _Was there anything strange or out of place? Was your relationship going well? Was there any trouble in paradise?_ and Sam’s answer is always short and simple, not because he’s guilty but because he knows what really killed her and they don’t. They’ll take care of informing the family, they said. Unless you feel like you should, they said. 

Eventually Dean intervenes and “politely” tells the cops to back off, that Sam isn’t doing well, that his girl just died and can’t you tell he’s not doing alright? Lay off, Officer. Sam doesn’t have it in him to apologize on Dean’s behalf, mostly because he doesn’t feel like talking. Honestly, he just wants to sleep. 

The shitty motel Dean picks out is fine. It’s about a mile or two from the Stanford campus, with pale, puke green walls and sheets. Dean doesn’t look him in the eye once as Sam throws his bag of whatever didn’t burn to ash onto the bed. He’s got a few disposable cameras, from parties and such, the stupid purple dog shirt Jess bought him as a joke (that was saved from the fire from being thrown under the bed), and he’s got a few other useless odds and ends. None of them matter to him right now. Dean doesn’t look him in the eye when Sam sits on the edge of the bed in silence, looking straight at nothing. He wishes it was his bed, his and Jess’, the uncomfortable full size bed that creaked and made his back hurt every morning. 

“Sam,” Dean calls quietly. “Sammy.”

“Yeah?” he says, feeling quite small. 

“We can figure this out, you know,” Dean tries, because Dean always tries. “You know we will.”

He doesn’t. He can’t think of any way to fix this. The only thing on his mind is her face, and she really was so pretty, but she burned and it’s Sam’s fault. He ran to California to get away from the monsters and somehow they followed him. He should have known, with the nightmares and the shadows in the corner of his eyes, he should have just known. 

“--and we’ll find Dad, and the bitch who killed our mom and your girlfriend, and we’ll be okay, okay?” It occurs to him that Dean’s been talking to him for the last couple minutes, but he was too busy swimming in his guilt to notice. “What do you need? I can grab us some grub, if you want.”

Sam’s stomach lurched. “No thanks. I think...I just wanna sleep.”

“Alright,” his brother says softly, his eyes watering just a bit. It’s not until later that Sam realizes Dean was crying for him and not for Jessica. 

Sam doesn’t bother to get under the stained comforter. His body is running too hot. Instead, he curls up in the corner and puts his chin to his chest. His head swims with exhaustion, adrenaline, and grief, and before he knows it he drifts off into dreams and nightmares. 

He’s always had nightmares, especially after hunts that left too many bruises, or when he was real young and Dean and Dad would come back a lot later than they said they would. He had them as a teenger, in class when he’d accidentally fall asleep and his AP English teacher would send him to the nurse to calm down. And he had them all the way at Stanford, too, even if they didn’t happen very often. 

He remembers his nightmare from two days ago, an exact play by play of what had happened, and his stomach flips again. He swallows down tears and bile. 

He forces himself to wake up before he falls into a dream. He doesn’t want to think about her right now, not if he doesn’t have to. He does this the whole night, or what must be night. He notes that Dean turns the TV on and off periodically. He probably is doing rounds watching Sam sleep. He doesn’t really mind. If he’s being honest, he was terrified. Winchester’s were supposed to greet death with a smile and a shotgun, but for the last two years, Sam wasn’t really a Winchester. He was just Sam. Now, he knows he’s going to be Sam Winchester again, and he’s terrified. So he really doesn’t mind his big brother watching over him for a night. 

When he wakes up, or, rather, opens his eyes for the first time, he’s freezing. His eyes find the little alarm clock that reads 4:32am. Dean’s (Dad’s) leather jacket is thrown over him haphazardly, but he still can’t shake the cold as he lazily sits up. His eyes feel swollen, and he can only guess he’s been crying throughout the night. Sam cries a lot more than he would care to admit. When you’ve repressed any mildly unmasculine feeling since you were two, those feelings tend to build up, and now it felt as if they were all spilling out from his eyes and nose. Feelings about his negligent father, a man only Dean could really read. John could blame it on protecting Sam all he wants, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Or feelings about his heavenly mother, only a picture and a memory that he doesn’t even have. That isolating feeling that came with being the only one in his family who didn’t know her. And now he’s got all these feelings about his dead girlfriend (fiance, would have been fiance, he was about to buy the ring next week, he would have proposed on Christmas), and he wishes he could shut him heart right up and sink into the ground. 

He does to some sort of sinking, because when he walks into the bathroom, his legs give out and suddenly he’s leaning against the cold tile wall, staring blankly at its purtrid green color. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually his body gets used to the cold tile, and he refuses to get up. He doesn’t cry. Not that he doesn’t want to, infact, he wishes he would, just to get it over with. But he can’t. He can’t. 

“Sam?” Dean returns from wherever he was. Sam can hear his boots against the floor, but he still doesn’t move. “Sammy?” When he doesn’t respond, the boots quicken and he can hear Dean breathing sharply. 

Dean opens the bathroom door quite violently, and Sam knows he probably scared him. Dean takes a long breath of relief when he sees his little brother curled into the corner of the bathroom. 

Sam takes a minute, but when he finally looks up at Dean, Dean’s staring at him with his sad green eyes, mom’s eyes, and Sam can feel himself start to crumble. 

“I don’t know what to do, Dean,” he whispers, his voice scratchy. He feels very small. 

Dean slides down the wall next to him silently. They sit there for a moment, but the silence is overwhelming, and Sam can feel those feelings climb up into his throat. He takes one breath in, and when he lets go, so does everything else. 

Dean holds him against the wall. He places sam's head on his shoulder and holds him in his arms, and they will never talk about this again. In an hour, they'll pretend this didn't happen.

But for now, Dean holds Sam, like he did when they were five and nine, like he did when they were ten and fourteen, like he did when Dad was too drunk or when the monster were too terrifying. Sam lets himself be held by his big brother as he finally, truly, cries for his lost love. 

And for his lost childhood.


End file.
